


The Tough Option

by luna_plath



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aurors, Complete, Divorce, F/M, Grimmauld Place, HP: EWE, Harry Potter Next Generation, Marriage, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-Series, Prompt Fic, Quidditch, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After splitting up fifteen years ago Harry and Ginny are thrown together again when they search for their children during a detention gone wrong. But will their complicated history get in the way of forging a new relationship? A story in five parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Balcony Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyras/gifts).



The first time he noticed Tracey Davis was after knowing her for ten years.

She’d been in his year at Hogwarts, in Slytherin, so naturally they hadn’t gotten to know each other well. He remembered her spending a lot of time with Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson, her housemates, but just the girls; Harry had no memory of spotting her with her male classmates, except maybe Theodore Nott sometime in their sixth year. But ever since school and the war she seemed to be running in different circles than her friends. And didn’t he know plenty about that.

Teenaged friendships aside, he definitely wouldn’t have called them school chums. Harry didn’t get to know her until he caught Jonathan Swell, a swindling jewelry salesman who sold cursed gemstones to both witches and muggles. Tracey was the dark artifacts specialist for the Auror Office and she had analyzed multiple pieces for him. She was good enough at her job to have earned a private office, a rarity in the DMLE, especially for someone so young.

One afternoon he stopped by her open doorway, rapping his knuckles against the frame while leaning against it. “Davis, have you taken a break all day?”

She looked up at him, her silver, hoop earrings glinting as she moved, reminding Harry of the fairy lights he always woke up to after an auror mission landed him in St. Mungo’s. “Not yet. I just finished up this report for Robards.”

He nodded toward the door leading out of the office. “Up for some tea then? I’ve got to make the rounds in magical London if you want to come.” He was already wearing his now trademark dragon-hide jacket.

Her dusty, golden hair reminded him of a lioness; it was layered, dark in places and pale blond in others. Harry thought that he could’ve spent ages watching her hair move and never figure out what color it actually was.

“Alright,” she agreed, blotting her eagle feather quill and placing it on her desk. He watched her stand, noticing the thin sliver of peachy skin that showed between her black skirt and off-the-shoulder jumper as she reached for her pea coat.

Harry tore his eyes away and waited for her in the doorway, brushing his longish black hair out of his eyes and trying not to meet Ron’s shrewd gaze from across the room.

\----

After Ginny left him he felt like he’d lost much more than just a girlfriend. He was Harry Potter. He’d been through pain and sacrifice and innumerable angry, sleepless nights—and even worse mornings. He’d grown up without any parents to speak of, he’d broken countless bones, he’d seen his own friends die in battle, he’d fought murderers and nearly been murdered himself. But giving up Ginny Weasley had felt tougher than all of that.

After the war he had been optimistic. The logical part of his brain had told him not to pin too many hopes on her, on what they had together, but after so much hurt and neglect and time, he couldn’t help but give himself completely over to her. Being with Ginny was like standing on the edge of a ship, toes pointing seaward, balanced on the balls of his feet with the wind gently pushing one way or the other. It had been new and exciting and beautiful and, at times, painful.

Hitting the icy water on the other side had been the most painful of all.

“This isn’t working,” she’d said, arms crossed over her chest. “We aren’t working.”

At the time he’d already seen the decision forming in her eyes—their cool, brown gaze like a sharp jab to the chest. They’d been together for three-and-a-half years and this had been coming for at least one of them.

Fred’s death had been hard on her. She’d spent the last year of her education in and out of McGonagall’s office with that same tired, consumed look he’d seen her wear all of her first year, pink lips pulled close together while she considered her options.

_What am I going to do?_ she’d asked, and he’d put his arm around her shoulders, tugged her hair behind her ear, told her: _Whatever you want._

What Ginny wanted was a name of her own. She wanted to be remembered as Somebody, not Somebody’s Girl, and even though it broke his heart to hear her say it, he wasn’t surprised.

She’d always been independent. It was what he liked most about her.

\----

Harry pulled the zipper up on his second-hand jacket and stood on the corner of a busy street in muggle London, Tracey Davis at his side. It was early November, well on its way to winter, and he was grateful for the warmth of the coffee in his cold hand.

Peering out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a pendant on a long chain, visible through her open pea coat.

“That’s pretty,” he said, nodding to the necklace she wore. Looking down, she plucked the Celtic cross from the folds of her clothes, holding the onyx charm in the palm of her hand.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“You didn’t pick it up from a bloke by the name of Jonathan Swell, did you?”

“No,” she chuckled. “Thankfully not.”

The light changed and they began to cross the busy road, Tracey sipping from her lidded cup of tea.

“From a boyfriend then,” Harry said, shoving his unoccupied hand in the pocket of his jacket. A cool wind picked up and they both ducked a little lower into their outerwear.

Shooting him a knowing look, she answered, “I don’t have a boyfriend. The necklace used to belong to my mum. It was a gift from my dad for their ten-year anniversary, but now it makes her sad so she gave it to me. Said a good piece of jewelry didn’t belong in a drawer somewhere.”

She had told him the week before about her father, a story she’d shared in an almost off-hand way when he’d mentioned a bill that Hermione was proposing from the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures on centaurs and magical horses.

“That was my father’s business,” she’d said, organizing stacks of parchment in her office. “I’m half-blood, my father being the wizard. I grew up on a horse farm on the southern coast where we raised Irish sport horses for hunting and magical purposes. The hair from their mane and tail are quite useful.”

When Harry had pressed her to keep talking, she’d gone into a bit more detail, sharing about her father’s death when she was only fourteen and her family’s eventual relocation to London.

“At first it was a real shock. Losing my father was almost like loosing my tie to the magical world, like somehow without him I didn’t belong anymore, and even worse than feeling displaced was losing the horses. My whole life changed very quickly,” Tracey had explained to a frowning Harry.

They crossed over to a less crowded street, the sounds of muggle automobiles fading slightly. “And you?” she asked. “Have you got a girlfriend?”

Even just a month ago an internal voice would have thought yes, a vestigial reaction from his three-and-a-half-year relationship with Ginny, but when he looked at the blonde witch walking next to him he righted himself. “No, not now.”

She arched a honey-colored eyebrow in his direction but the cluster of freckles that decorated her cheeks and the bridge of her nose distracted him.

As they approached Ashworth Square Harry shifted his thoughts from his coworker to the task at hand. “Best keep close,” he advised, adjusting the grip on the wand in his pocket. “This isn’t exactly a nice part of London.”

Tracey nodded and adopted a cool expression that reminded him of the teenaged girl he’d been acquainted with at school—his classmate who’d been a friend to Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott, who’d lost her father and her heritage in one blow—and he couldn’t help the tightness that started in his chest and spread to the tips of his fingers, a hot prickling that felt initially alien with this new woman.

But, for the first time in six months, he was feeling interest and attraction towards something that wasn’t just his memory of Ginny Weasley.

\----

There hadn’t been a big fight; there had been no screaming, no crying, just the sort of conversation that two people would have over tea on a Saturday afternoon.

He’d just gotten back from a month-long mission in Africa and his skin was at least two shades darker than usual, but he was still so intensely himself that he couldn’t—refused to—fight her. Ginny’s mind was made up and begging would only hurt his pride. Harry felt cold, snide anger emerge – anger that he’d become intimately acquainted with during his fifth year – and accepted her reasons with few words and a stiff jaw.

Later he would wonder if he’d made the right decision, if he should have said something, promised something, but the headstrong, stubborn part of him dug his heels in and he let her walk out of his life instead of pleading her to stay.

When Ron came upstairs looking for him, still in his pajamas from the looks of it, he’d asked Harry what he was so buggered about.

He’d shrugged, exhaled his cigarette smoke, and explained that Ginny had left him.

“And?” his best mate had asked, temper immediately showing. “What’d you do?”

“Bloody nothing, alright? I don’t even know. Go ask Ginny. She has plenty of reasons,” he said, leaning against the balcony railing. It was dark by now, Grimmauld Place’s busiest hour, and the April air breathed a sigh of warmth against his skin.

Ron seemed to be oscillating between confusion, disapproval, and understanding. “Really, mate? I mean, really?”

He was shocked enough for the both of them, it seemed. “Yeah,” Harry said, dropping what was left of his cigarette in the jar of water he kept on the balcony. “Really.”

\----

By the end of November he’d taken Tracey out on a proper date in muggle London. Harry had opted out of somewhere familiar like the Leaky Cauldron or one of the other wizarding establishments to give them some anonymity; he knew all too well what kind of mad rumors people could spread, and he didn’t want to scare her off before they even got to know each other.

It was even colder at the end of November than it had been on the day they’d done the London beat together, and he felt her physically shiver when he grabbed her hand on the walk to her flat.

Tracey lived in a muggle flat not far away from the Ministry, which wasn’t all that surprising, considering her only living relative was her non-magical mother. He followed her with nervousness itching through him like the cold upwelling of water, a strong pull that encircled his heart and lapped at his throat. Once they reached her landing she smiled slightly at him, unlocking the front door while he crossed the threshold and shrugged out of his coat, getting a mental grip on his anxiety.

This was the part he was nervous about: the time alone, the sex, the confrontation with the knowledge that he would really never be with Ginny again. It was a present, but fleeting, thought; he’d been remembering her less and less of late, and most of the apprehension he was feeling was centered on the fact that he’d only sexually been with one person. How many twenty-two-year-olds could say that? It certainly wouldn’t be expected from someone like him, meaning someone who had an entire gossip column devoted to his romantic interests in Witch Weekly.

But the fact remained that he was undoubtedly attracted to her. Where Ginny had been bold and feisty and stubborn and so ready to prove herself, Tracey was experienced and honest and independent in her own right.

They’d kissed once before in his office. He’d been working on a new case of murders in Manchester and hadn’t noticed the late time until she’d stopped by to say good night. Tracey had worn her hair up that day, her usual hoop earrings in place, and with the Auror Office deserted it had been more temptation than he could handle.

After a much longer kiss than he’d planned, she’d pulled away, her golden hair falling out of its bun. “I’m late to meet Daphne,” she’d said. It was then that he’d asked her to dinner, forming it as more of a statement than a question. Tracey had agreed to see him, but the Manchester killer had expanded their sights to Bristol as well, which had kept him busy and limited their opportunities for a repeat performance.

He hadn’t addressed his worries about the situation until half an hour before his date when he’d begun to realize the potential problems with what he was about to do. Was he still in love with Ginny? Was this thing with Tracey actually going to make it anywhere? Was there even any point in looking for a long-term girlfriend when he was consistently working until midnight some weeks or out of the country for others?

When she handed him a tall glass of brandy Harry resolved to forget about the critical voice in the back of his head and what his friends would say about him dating a Slytherin girl, determinedly putting his shredded heart and his innocence aside. _I’m not fucking sixteen anymore_ , he told himself. _Who cares about house pride or ex-girlfriends when half the people I know are dead and I’m lonelier then I can even admit._

Instead of begging off he kissed her full on the mouth in the middle of her kitchen, her body warm and arching towards him like a current in a young stream.

\----

After he caught the Manchester killer Harry gained a sort of quiet respect from his colleagues in the Auror Office, an appreciation that stemmed from his actions rather than his reputation, and there was talk among the newer recruits of whether he’d be promoted.

“It’s a done deal,” Ron said, lazily making a slashing motion with his wand and igniting the gas stovetop in their tiny tent-kitchen. “Maybe not immediately, but if you keep bagging people like Swell and this Manchester bloke then Robards is bound to push you forward.”

They were camped out near the Scottish border in midwinter, looking for signs of an overactive vampire coven. Neville sat at the table with Harry, both of them nursing mugs of hot tea while sleet descended on the frozen landscape.

“I suppose,” Harry admitted. “But I’m not expecting anything. It’s not like I really need the extra gold.”

“Gold’s not the point, is it? It would be like finally being accepted,” Neville supplied.

He shrugged in response, sharpening his pocket knife while Ron tossed some vegetables into the warming pot of broth on the stove.

“Alright then, chatty. New subject. I’ve been curious about this one for a while, but Hermione reckons it’s none of my business if you haven’t already said. Answer me straight: are you or are you not banging that Davis girl?” Ron asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.

The shrewd look he wore was more than Harry could take; the right corner of his mouth twitched and he tried to hide his growing, unrepentant smile.

“Hermione’s right,” he said playfully. “It is none of your business. But yeah, we’re together.”

“You sly git,” his friend exclaimed. “I knew it! She owes me two galleons. Hermione was betting that you were still moping over Ginny, but this has been coming on for a bit, hasn’t it? Anyway, now that you’ve found a different girl then I can go ahead and tell you. Ginny’s seeing some photographer bloke that she met on tour with the Harpies. Apparently it’s nothing serious, but I felt weird not telling you about it.”

Ron returned to stirring the pot of beef stew, checking the contents and covering it with a lid while the foul weather continued outside, the wind reaching a strong pitch.

Harry shrugged, wearing an unaffected expression. “You don’t have to feel that way. I don’t really care,” he said easily, leaning back on the rear legs of his chair. Ron seemed to accept this statement without much investigation, but Neville’s blue eyes were trained on his face while he continued to work with the pocket knife.

The steady scraping of his tool against the sharp metal was a relief in the silent kitchen. The wind quieted as Neville placed a hand on his shoulder, earnestly claiming that he was happy for him. Harry would have believed him if it weren’t for the searching, expectant look in his friend’s eyes that said more than Ron or Neville ever would.

\----

After they’d been together for six months, he talked Tracey into moving in with him. His demands at work had only increased since the Manchester case and he missed her on the nights they were apart.

_I’m old enough to do this_ , he reasoned with himself, watching his blonde girlfriend quietly breathe next to him in bed, her pink lips parted and inviting. Harry tucked his arm under his head and stared at the high ceiling, his chest in knots. Ron and Hermione had been supportive; he’d met Tracey’s mother and got on well with her. Mrs. Davis had given him a bright, intuitive look that had made him feel like he was a silly, love struck teenager again, like he was fifteen and probing Sirius for advice on girls. And still, after everything that had happened, a part of him couldn’t let go of the childish idea that he was supposed to be with his first love.

It had happened to his parents, and even though Harry wouldn’t describe himself as the sentimental type he had harbored that idea—the idea that he would end up with Ginny for good, because she was his first, because the two of them together would make him a real Weasley, because she looked so much like his mother—for longer that was probably advisable. For so long he’d felt entitled to the happiness that had eluded him previously. _I have given so much_ , he’d thought, fuming and bitter, _don’t I deserve to be happy? Don’t I deserve to get the girl and live peacefully now that this is over?_

Harry’s biggest lesson had come afterward, when he had realized that life would never work that way. It simply didn’t, and he was just an unfortunately overused character in its demonstration. He was with Tracey Davis and Ginny was with Eddie Carmichael and he was finally okay with that. Professor Trelawney wasn’t going to make any more prophecies about his future and the stars weren’t going to align and it didn’t matter that he was the Chosen One or the Boy Who Lived because life didn’t owe him a damn thing and it was intent on showing him that.

He closed his eyes and slid his arm around his naked girlfriend, determined not to feel the disappointment that he had created.


	2. Follow Through

For the first fourteen years of her life, being the youngest Weasley had been her only identity. She had a place in the world through her brothers and her parents and people like Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, but when she was fifteen Ginny decided to change all of that. She was tired of being caught up in the generalization of her family, her house, her gender, so she tried out for chaser and started dating Dean Thomas and for the first time a real glimmer of herself was visible to everyone. 

She’d only ever wanted for them to see her, but as she grew up Ginny realized how difficult that actually was. Some people had no problem with it; people like Harry, she reckoned, couldn’t help but be themselves no matter the circumstance. It was one of the reasons she’d liked him so much, initially. He could effortlessly do what she’d been aiming for her whole life, and that capability made him more attractive to her than any other boy she’d met. When the war ended it seemed only natural to be with him, until it wasn’t. 

Growing up with six brothers had fostered in her a desire to be noticed for her own merit, to be appreciated, and once she started playing with the Harpies it had seemed like the wishes from her girlhood were finally coming true. Instead of being known merely as Arthur Weasley’s daughter or Ron Weasley’s little sister she had an identity of her own, and no one could dampen it for her. 

Except perhaps Harry Potter. 

\---- 

“Weasley!” Gwenog shouted from her place on the pitch. “Get down here and meet Ed Carmichael, he’s doing the team photos tomorrow.” 

Ginny angled her Nimbus toward her team captain and descended, making a clean landing on the plush, summer grass. She dismounted from her broom and gingerly walked over to meet the Harpies’ new photographer, Eddie Carmichael, a Ravenclaw and two years her senior, if she remembered correctly. 

“Nice to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand and hoping she didn’t smell too offensively sweaty. The team had been subjected to twice-a-day practices in the height of August and it was likely that she smelled like a musty locker room. 

“And you as well,” he said, smiling easily. His hair was a rich, chocolate brown that fell in loose curls. A rather nice camera was tucked under the arm of his dark blazer, along with some standard lighting equipment. 

“Carmichael’s getting some photos of the pitch before tomorrow’s group shots. Still doing the story for _Quidditch International_ , then?” 

“Yes. I’d actually really appreciate the opportunity to ask Miss. Weasley a few questions for my article, if that’s alright,” he said, and it was then that Ginny noticed the never-out quill and reporter’s notebook in his pocket. 

“Sure, that sounds fine,” she answered. 

“Excellent,” said Gwenog. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up while Ed gets his pictures, and then you can use my office for the interview?” 

Ginny nodded in the affirmative and promised not to take too long while she changed. As the Harpies’ newest player she was routinely asked for interviews or picture opportunities, but Gwen seemed very keen on getting her to talk with Ed, so she guessed that it was a big article that could potentially help her career. Swallowing the flurries of worry and anticipation that welled up in her stomach, she made her way to the locker room for a quick shower, broom over her shoulder. 

\---- 

The first time she’d had sex was in Sirius’ old bed at Grimmauld Place, only a month or two after the war had ended. She had gone looking for Harry at the London townhouse and succeeded in finding him there, sorting through some of the older things that his godfather had left. 

“Mum asked about you. She wanted to know if you were staying for dinner and couldn’t remember if you were at the Ministry today or sorting things out over here, so I said I’d come check,” Ginny explained. 

He dropped the stack of dark arts texts that had undoubtedly belonged to Regulus or his father and took a few steps toward her, ignoring the puff of dust that emerged from the discarded pile on the floor. His hands met hers and they stood there for a moment while Harry traced the inside of her palm with his thumb. 

“When’s she expecting you back?” he asked. 

Playing at nonchalance, she shrugged, a wave of her auburn hair falling past her shoulder. “Not sure. Mum said that she was heading over to Andromeda’s for tea, and knowing how much she likes to talk . . . it could take hours.” 

Her light tone didn’t fool him. Harry grasped her forearms, pulling her closer and angling one of his legs so it was almost between hers. “Yeah? Any plans?” 

There was a burning in his eyes that she’d seen before and Ginny didn’t hesitate when his lips found her neck, his hands dipping underneath her cotton shirt, drawing her closer to the barrier between adolescence and adulthood, otherwise known as virginity. They had been prowling around one another for the majority of the summer—silent kissing in her childhood bed or blind, dusk-hour groping in the tall grass beyond the garden, early morning blowjobs in her clean, white-tiled bathroom while her mum was outside hanging up the wash—and now there was a location and a timeframe and not even Voldemort himself, risen from the grave, could have upset Ginny’s plan to sleep with her elusive boyfriend. 

With her naked back arching against a dead man’s sheets and Harry’s fingers thumbing a rhythm between her legs, it seemed that she was finally getting what she wanted. 

\---- 

Scrubbed clean, Ginny brushed her freshly dried hair behind her ear, rubbing a fraying section of her jeans with the edge of her nail. Not exactly a glamorous outfit for an interview, but she was a sports player, not a model, and hopefully Carmichael wouldn’t be taking any photos of her this evening. 

“Excuse me? Miss. Weasley?” 

“Sorry,” Ginny said, looking up from the interesting bit of carpet on the floor. “I didn’t quite catch what you said before?” 

“That’s perfectly alright. I asked if things were still finished between yourself and Harry Potter,” Ed repeated while she fought the urge to grimace. 

When she had first signed with the Harpies the public had become aware of her Quidditch ability and her relationship with Harry nearly simultaneously, and it had been a constant during her career, at least until a few months previously. Ginny had chosen Quidditch as a way to make a name of her own. But being Harry’s girlfriend had somehow usurped that position, reducing her talent to a mere epithet in the daily gossip column. Her significance was represented in phrases like: _eighteen-year-old Ginny Weasley, longtime girlfriend of Harry Potter and recently recruited chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, was seen in Diagon Alley yesterday sporting a canary-yellow muggle dress and sandals. See photos on page eight._ Ginny had hoped that after their breakup she would be taken more seriously for her ability as a chaser and not just as a celebrity, but apparently Ed Carmichael hadn’t bothered to notice. 

“Yes,” she said politely. “Harry and I are no longer together.” Her simple answer seemed to satisfy him, and Ginny felt her shoulders significantly relax when he moved on to talk about her upcoming match with the Falmouth Falcons. 

\---- 

Two months later, Ginny found herself accepting an invitation to dinner from Eddie. It was just after the Quidditch International article had been printed and he’d owled her a clipping, along with an attached note asking if she’d be interesting in going to dinner with him sometime. It was the first offer of a date that she’d received since breaking up with Harry, and after five months with nothing to fill her time but her friends, family, and training schedule, she was starting to feel slightly guilty, as well as socially deprived. 

Whenever she returned to the flat she shared with two other team-members (Jessica Spits, beater, and Leanne Duncan, chaser) she would remind herself, lips pressed together, shoulders tight, that this was what she’d wanted. Even on nights when Jessica stayed with boyfriend, when Leanne visited her brother Stewart in Scotland, when she could hear her neighbors having monogamous, uninhibited sex, Ginny would repeat to herself: _I wanted it this way, even if I’m alone._

Over the summer it had been easier to ignore her feelings. Gwenog had them practicing on a grueling schedule for the upcoming season and her mind had been more preoccupied with her aching muscles than her damaged love life, but as autumn approached the situation developed a harsher tone of reality. 

She had left Harry. Even just the thought alone had taken months for her to comprehend. It had only taken a week for her to decide that they weren’t right for each other any more, but if that were really true then why would she be feeling regret nearly six months later? Ginny pressed herself with questions, lying on her home-stitched quilt while staring at the quaint, punched-tin ceiling in her bedroom, her feelings slowly emerging with all their enormous, interlocking truths. 

Things had been deteriorating for nearly a year, with Harry working more than ever and returning from missions with increasing numbers of injuries. At the time she’d rationalized that the process was normal, that it was totally standard for him to start out with easier cases and work up to the more difficult ones, but she couldn’t help the sinking, itchy feeling that he was moving too quickly. 

It was no secret that the aurors had been in desperate need for new recruits after the war, and Harry, Ron, and Neville had been the answer, although Ginny had been harboring the suspicion that the ministry didn’t really have their safety at heart for some time. Was it normal to send a trainee to Peru or Kenya to chase after known Death Eaters with only a team of four? Was it normal to end up in the St. Mungo’s curse ward once at least once a month with life-threatening injuries? If it was, then it was too much for her, because the emotional realities of being with an auror were more than she could take. 

Ginny had asked herself the same question over and over—at nights with the sheets drawn up to her chest, after she’d searched the crowd during a game at least twice before realizing that he wouldn’t be there, after shutting herself in the bathroom and crying over old T-shirts and touches of Harry all throughout her life—and she’d always arrived at the same reasons. 

Because _I need to do this on my own_ is always easier than _I’m afraid to lose you_. Because _I want this for myself_ is simpler than _I’m afraid of losing who I am_. Because a half-truth can be less complicated than the whole truth, or even just a straight-out lie. 

Because she was scared and because she was stubborn and because she loved him so goddamn much—and, maybe most importantly, because she wouldn’t be Ginny Weasley if she didn’t at least follow through. 

\---- 

Ginny entered her date with a cautious state of mind. Eddie had seemed like a nice enough bloke while he was interviewing her, but she didn’t really know him that well, even if he had written excellent things about her in an international publication, and she hoped that by accepting his invitation she wasn’t inadvertently setting herself up to pay him back later in the evening. 

Judging by his appearance the first time they’d met, Ginny assumed that he spent a lot of time in both the magical and muggle worlds, so she went for something that would pass in either situation: a simple black dress, royal blue flats, and a beige trench jacket. 

Eddie stopped by her flat to pick her up and they walked to a nearby muggle restaurant that was somewhat known within the magical community. Ginny did a lot of listening on the way, which she thought was fair because he had already interviewed her for nearly two hours on a previous occasion. 

He shared a bit more about his occupation, explaining that articles were where he made his real money, but that his true passion was photography and that he hoped to make a more solid career out of it in the future. He asked her about her family, George’s joke shop, and her friendship with Luna, which had been mentioned in an article Luna had written for a publication on magical creatures. This led them to a discussion of the trip that Ginny went on over the summer with Luna to the Philippines, and a further discussion on travel—all before the main course. 

Squinting at Eddie as if his jumpiness were a visible feature, Ginny said, “You aren’t perhaps nervous, are you?” 

He twirled his fork in his right hand but didn’t break eye contact. “I am, actually. Does it show? Have I been talking too much?” 

At least he was aware of his flaws, she thought. “A bit, but that’s alright. You really shouldn’t be though. I’ve had a nice time so far.” 

It wasn’t a lie, and hopefully it would get him to act more naturally. The beat of silence that passed between them gave her an opportunity to lead up her own questions and thankfully Eddie relaxed a little as the dinner went on. By the time they paid the bill and stepped outside she could truthfully say that she’d had a good time, at the very least, and that Eddie was smart and possibly charming, in a bookish sort of way. He was nothing like her brothers, and nothing close to her usual type, but something urged her to agree to see him again. Ginny used his battered reporter’s quill to scribble the number of her landline onto his forearm, explaining that she was a novice to telephone operation but if he called she would try to answer. 

Eddie walked her back to her flat, kissed her on the cheek, and, fighting a blush, promised to call. It was the first painless evening she’d had in a long while, even if he would never quite be like Harry. 

\---- 

Christmas was the first time she brought Eddie around to meet all her brothers at once, having introduced him to Ron the month before over dinner, and Ginny felt the need to warn her new boyfriend before bringing him over the threshold of per parents’ home. 

“Don’t take anything my brothers say too seriously,” she said, hand on his arm. “Especially George. Apart from that, as long as you’re polite and you eat well, my parents will love you.” 

“Sounds easy enough,” he said, reassuring her. “Honest. The thought of your five brothers and their wives doesn’t intimidate me at all.” 

“Excellent. I’m glad you’re starting this with the right attitude.” 

When they entered the kitchen door they were, thankfully, only met by Ron and Hermione, who were pouring cups of freshly brewed tea. 

She hugged her brother and longtime friend while Ron clapped Eddie on the shoulder in greeting. 

“Good to see you again,” he said, and Ginny could tell that Hermione had given him some sort of talking-to before their arrival. 

She wondered briefly if Harry had been asked for Christmas dinner but didn’t voice her question. Of course he had been invited, Ginny reasoned, Harry had been over to stay for the holiday nearly every year since he was eleven. The thought of seeing him face-to-face after so much absent time sent a spark of anxiety down her spine, pooling in her stomach like a full gulp of water. 

There was little time to dwell on it, however, because Fleur and her mother promptly entered the kitchen with Victoire trailing on their heels. There were more introductions and hugs, and Ginny greeted her young niece while her sister-in-law tiredly sank into a kitchen chair. 

Much to her discomfort, one of the first questions out of Victoire’s mouth was, “Where’s Uncle Harry?” which was followed by “Auntie Gin, why didn’t you make him stay for Christmas?” 

Thankfully, Ron scooped her up, answering in a spooky voice, “Because he’s catching _dark wizards!_ ” He punctuated the end of the sentence by tickling her, and Victoire shrieked at the assault, cackling and wriggling out of his grip at the first opportunity, running into the sitting room where she informed Bill that Uncle Ron was teasing her. 

“Harry and Neville are in Singapore for the holiday,” Hermione said, mostly for Ginny’s benefit, she guessed. “A last minute case came in and they volunteered so that Ron could stay in England.” 

“We’ll have to have them over for supper straight away. You should be grateful, Ron,” Molly said, loading dishes onto the magically expanded kitchen table. 

Ignoring the conversation, she helped her mum set the table and arrange the food, pretending that it was a holiday out of her childhood memories instead of the very different one she’d encountered; Ginny folded napkins and eavesdropped while Eddie got acquainted with Percy, George, and Bill. 

“So you write for Quidditch magazines, then?” Percy asked. Ginny got the feeling that her brothers were trying to feel Eddie out before dinner really got started. 

“Not just Quidditch, a bunch of other publications as well, but sports writing and photography is where I make most of my money.” 

Her brothers seemed to accept that answer; any wizard who fancied sports was welcome in their family. She heard Ed ask what her brothers did for a living and tried not to snigger when Percy’s answer was twice as long as George and Bill’s combined. 

Charlie and her father emerged from the den, along with Angelina and Percy’s new girlfriend Audrey. It was more than a tight fit, she reckoned, but even with every member of her immediate family and a few extras the assembly still felt smaller than the gatherings from her past. Ginny immediately thought of Fred and Harry, and the smile she’d been wearing since she arrived slipped, the scene before her swimming with meaningless images. 

As a child, Christmas had been her favorite day of the year, but the first few holidays after the war had been unbearable for her. All of the buildup and pretense had shattered along the inside of her skull, leaving impressions of guilt, unhappiness, and insincerity in the place of her dead brother. In recent years things had seemed easier, but the absence of Harry jarred her more than Ginny was willing to admit. Giving up his Christmas holiday for Ron was so like him that even just thinking about it made her ache. Why wasn’t he here, or at least staying in with that Tracy Davis girl he was dating now? An image of her ex-boyfriend and the blonde Slytherin she’d known at Hogwarts flashed through her mind and she mentally recoiled. 

_Why do I always fucking do this to myself?_ she wondered, taking the basket of homemade rolls that her father passed her. _Why do I force myself to be miserable because I think I ought to be? Why can’t I just accept what’s in front of me and get on with it?_

Hermione sent her a curious look and she pretended not to notice, squeezing Eddie’s hand on her leg underneath the table. Ginny pushed her emotional response to the safe, silent space in the back of her mind, returning to the discussion that was now taking place between Charlie and George over chocolate frog cards. It was just another Christmas, she reasoned, and agonizing over the loss of her brother or her first love wouldn’t make it any more bearable.


	3. A Different Type of Woman

The match that ended her career as a Quidditch player came much sooner than she would have liked. Truthfully, Ginny wasn’t interested in ending her stint as chaser whatsoever, but after the healers at St. Mungo’s examined her left arm for the umpteenth time she realized that no matter how many tests they ran or potions they gave her, it would never be the same again. She had played for the Harpies all of her adult life, nearly four years in total, and now it was over.

Later, Ginny would reflect that the day she came home from the hospital to the flat she now shared with Eddie was one of the worst days of her life, second only to the day that Fred and half her friends had died. 

There was little residual pain, but her arm would never be strong enough for her to return to chasing, and she definitely wouldn’t be able to tolerate any more damage to it. But even if the event had been totally painless, Ginny would have been devastated. It was as if someone had taken away a future that wasn’t even fully formed without her consent—like she had been robbed of her potential, the same word that her healers and friends and physical therapists kept throwing around. _She had so much potential._ And what did she have now? Very little, it seemed, besides her family and her successful, if brief, time in Quidditch. 

Her mum took to regularly dropping by on the days immediately following her injury, swearing that she just wanted to help out around the house so she didn’t strain herself. Ginny suspected that she really wanted to make sure she wasn’t moping about. Eddie had pressured her into staying home instead of looking for work straight off, saying that she needed to rest and regain her strength, but the time cooped up in their flat was making her anxious over what she was going to do with her future—with her life. 

She felt like she was back in McGonagall’s office, the sensation of being a confused teenager rolling through her mind like a forgotten dream, uncertainty roughly tugging on her while she tried to reach a decision. 

Despite her mother’s fretting, Ginny hadn’t received much coddling from her brothers; growing up, she had earned a reputation of being just as tough as the boys, and through the whole process she had tried to uphold her family’s image of herself: strong, capable, and determined. She felt like none of those at the moment, except perhaps determined; she was determined not to let go of her whole life because of one accident, perhaps even determined enough to be considered blatantly stubborn.

Ginny had gone to one of many physical therapy sessions earlier in the day, arriving back at her flat to find that her mother had already done all the straightening up while she’d been away. The healers had said to ice her arm for thirty minutes after every therapy session, so she emptied the charmed self-refilling tray in the icebox and applied it to her left arm, holding the little bundle in a thin towel.

As she gently rearranged the makeshift pack a polite knock sounded at the door. Ron had mentioned coming by for lunch to give her the names and addresses of a couple rehabilitative trainers he knew of through the Aurors, and Ginny was grateful for the company and the information. She balanced the icepack on her left elbow and opened the door to her flat without checking the peephole.

“Oh,” she said, faced with the tall, dark-haired man that was definitely not her brother. “Sorry Harry, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know,” he said easily, his hands in the pockets of his black auror fatigue jacket. “Ron asked me to drop by with some contacts. He’s caught up in a meeting with Robards and I was headed to this part of London anyway . . . Do you mind if I come in?”

“Not at all, come inside. Mum’s just been by so the place is alarmingly clean. Would you fancy any tea? I was just about to make some.”

“Sure,” he answered, following Ginny into the kitchen.

The flat she shared with Eddie was fairly modest, purchased on the starting salary of her freelancing boyfriend, and therefore nothing compared to Grimmauld Place, which Harry had spent the better part of their relationship repairing. But despite her recent failings with Quidditch, she was happy with the little life she had carved out for herself, even if it meant a looming career change. 

He took a seat at the round, pine table in her eat-in kitchen, glancing through the rumpled Prophet that Ed had abandoned that morning. He scanned the crime article that had been written on the recent Zielinski Murders while she filled the kettle and placed it on the stove to boil.

“Can’t get enough of it at the office?” she asked, pulling out a chair for herself and resting her arm on the table.

Harry glanced up at her through his shaggy fringe, a half-smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Just seeing how they chose to represent it. I didn’t get a chance to look through the paper this morning.”

“It’s kind of a bare-bones story. Apparently the Zielinskis were very private, or so their neighbors say. Apart from that, and the details of the actual murder, of course, there’s not much to report so far,” Ginny shrugged, resting her chin on the palm of her right hand.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “That’s because we’re scrambling for an explanation before more details get released. But I shouldn’t be telling you that.”

“Tease,” she huffed.

The kettle sounded and Harry rose to attend to it before Ginny could protest.

“How’s your arm feeling?” he asked, pouring hot water into the two mugs with teabags she’d set aside, adding a spoonful of sugar to hers and a dash of milk to his own. A part of her was secretly pleased that he remembered that about her, but she chose not to mention it.

“It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you’re asking, but it can get quite stiff, especially in the mornings. There’s still some residual soreness in the joint but that will go away with time. I don’t know if Ron mentioned it to you, but I definitely won’t be able to play anymore,” she explained.

“No, actually. He didn’t mention it,” Harry said, placing a hot mug of tea in front of her. “I’m really sorry to hear that. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

Usually when people asked that question she tried not to unload on them, tried to give the brief, acquaintance-approved version of her options, but in front of Harry the words felt chalky and thick in her mouth, tacky with dishonesty. 

“I don’t really know yet,” she said truthfully. “I don’t even know if I still want to stay involved with sports—as a trainer or sports writer—or if I want to do something else entirely.”

“You’ll get taken on wherever you apply,” he said confidently, sipping his tea. She shot him a doubtful, discerning look, waiting to hear his explanation.

“You graduated from school, with more than decent marks—how many people our age can say that? I definitely can’t.”

“I suppose,” she said, leaving her tea untouched. “I just feel like I don’t have the kind of background needed for a ministry job, or the direction . . .”

Green eyes narrowing at her, Harry leaned forward, his forearms resting on the scrubbed wood. “Hey, that is not how Ginny Weasley talks about herself.”

A bitter, tightly coiled part of herself wanted to strike out and ask. _And how would you know?_ But she held back, remembering all the times when they were teenagers—just kids, really—when she’d done nearly the same thing to him; when she’d pushed him not to give up so easily, to spit in the face of his own misery. Sitting straighter, her own words came back to her.

“I think I’d be more positive about this if I actually knew what the long-term consequences of the injury were going to be,” she explained. “But it’s all dependent on how well I heal in the next two or three weeks, and the uncertainty is getting to me.”

He nodded in understanding, his rosy mouth twisted to one side. Ginny tried not to remember the soft, warm pressure of his lips or the scratchy tickle of his unshaven jaw, but their faces were close, both of them conversationally leaning toward one another, and the silent air around them felt positively heavy, like the welling humidity before a summer thunderstorm.

She looked down and tried to ignore the rush of heat to her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Harry move away slightly and fish a scrap of paper out of his pocket.

“I need to get going, but I’m supposed to give you this,” he said, handing the parchment decorated with Ron’s messy script over to her, careful for their fingers not to meet.

“Thank you,” Ginny said, placing the information next to her untouched tea. They stood and she walked him to the door, trying to clear her foggy brain while she gave him a half-hug goodbye, and failing miserably when his scent struck her like a lightning bolt of nostalgia.

Stop, stop, stop, she nagged herself, re-spelling the door moments after he left, her face still hot. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.

\----

While Eddie was away on business in Portugal Ginny found work with the International Quidditch League as an assistant trainer, taking a position with the female players on the England team. Even though the London flat was still her permanent residence, as the summer progressed she spent increasing amounts of time in isolated training facilities near the Scottish border. 

The trainer she worked under—Caroline Spencer, former keeper for the Wasps and the English international trainer for nearly fifteen years—was an even-tempered, practical woman, and nearly twice Ginny’s age. Caroline usually brought her spotted English Setter with her to training, and the casual atmosphere helped Ginny fall into a pattern of ease with her work, family, and personal life. 

Training with the England team was more fun than she had anticipated; her arm had healed well, leaving minimal bouts of discomfort during the transfer between seasons. Her personal worries were abating, too. George finally seemed to be coming around to his former self (which she accredited to his impending marriage to Angelina). 

Being an official bridesmaid in the second of many Weasley family weddings had left her feeling uncharacteristically sentimental, so when Eddie had presented her with a classic engagement ring during a last-minute trip to France, she’d looked out at the Seine and taken his hand in hers, promising to marry him. By accepting Eddie’s proposal she was leaving behind the last of her childhood; any of the childhood hope she’d had of marrying Harry had been abandoned.

When she told her parents in the familiar kitchen at the Burrow her mum had cried, dried her tears on her apron, and exclaimed that her ring must have cost far too much money, but that it was beautiful. Ginny’s father had hugged her very tightly and shaken Eddie’s hand. Her parents were proud, and quite happy for her, as she knew they’d be. 

The season edged closer to winter, Caroline gave her one of her newborn Setter pups as an engagement present, and it required less and less effort to forget about Harry or the now infamous Zielinski Murders or the iconic black and white photo of him with Tracy Davis after the news broke about his promotion. _Can you believe it, youngest head of the Auror Office in over seventy years! Isn’t that something?_ Yes, she agreed, it certainly was, but that “something” was no longer her concern.

\----

“Ginny? Are you there? It’s Hermione—can you hear me?”

“Coming!” she called, rushing into the living room with her wand between her teeth. Hermione was partially through the floo, and upon seeing her sister-in-law enter the living room she crawled through completely, brushing a bit of soot off the knee of her pencil skirt.

Ginny cinched the belt of her plum colored dress, angling her wand at her damp hair and casting a Hair Drying Charm. “What’s the emergency?” she asked.

“Tracy’s baby shower,” Hermione moaned. “I’d forgotten that it’s today and I had been trying to think of a good person to bring along so I wouldn’t have to go by myself to chat up a bunch of Slytherin girls all afternoon, but I can’t think of anyone, and you’re my best friend, and I know that it’s probably strange for you seeing as you and Harry were together for so long but I really don’t fancy the idea of facing the likes of Pansy Parkinson and her little friends all by myself.”

“Ask Angelina. Or Audrey. Or Ron.”

“Angelina’s visiting family in Algiers, Audrey has a virus, and Ron is stuck interrogating the leader of some loony werewolf colony. Please?”

“Can the werewolves not wait until tomorrow to be interrogated? Can’t you drag some other Weasley along, like Fleur, or Aunt Muriel?” she muttered a charm to spell her eyelashes full and black. Hermione shook her head, a pained look on her face.

The longer the conversation wore on the more likely it seemed that she’d have to attend the aforementioned baby shower. Ginny’s stomach churned at the thought. What made Hermione think that Tracy would even let her come? Surely it wasn’t prudent to invite the ex-girlfriend to the baby shower. Especially when Harry and Tracy weren’t even engaged, let alone married.

“Even if I go she’ll kick me out in a heartbeat,” Ginny said, crossing her arms. “Give it up Hermione. You’ve done far more dangerous, difficult things than sit through a couple of hours of Pansy and the Greengrass sisters.”

“You’re coming.”

“For the last time, Hermione,” she asserted. “There is no way you’re getting me to go to this baby shower.”

Thirty minutes later, Ginny and Hermione were ringing the bell of Number 12, both women preparing themselves for something decidedly unpleasant. “You owe me,” Ginny said, exhaling and bracing herself as footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. 

\----

Sometime during her marriage to Eddie, Ginny had reached a stable place in her life that was very distant from her past with Harry. She was used to jogging every morning with her setter, traveling to Spain or Turkey with Ed over the holidays, hiking on the weekends and occasionally having Caroline or her trainees over for lamb chops with chutney. It had been ages since the last ministry party she’d gone to with Harry, or one of the informal, office-wide drinking sessions with the aurors, so it was more than surprising when she entered the drawing room with Hermione and greeted her old porcelain-faced classmates. 

The nostalgia was nearly overwhelming, and she had to actively force herself to smile and politely shake Tracy’s hand, banishing all thoughts of the time when she’d lived in this very house. Changes had been made to the interior since the last time she’d been over, but Grimmauld Place still held the air of an old manor, albeit with a modern twist. She could see Harry’s personality all over the home, from the auror jacket hanging in the entryway to the now-vintage Firebolt that rested against the wall just outside the kitchen. There were also faint scratches on the hardwood stairway that suggested recent traffic from a dog, which Ginny didn’t find surprising in the least. One of her ex-boyfriend’s biggest complaints about his life as an auror was that it didn’t give him enough time at home to care for an animal, and with a live-in girlfriend it seemed that he’d finally gotten his wish.

There were more than just the dreaded Slytherin girls in attendance, but they appeared to be Tracy’s closer friends. She spotted an older woman who had the same golden blonde hair and waif-like build; and the two girls shared a glance. Tracy’s mother? Hermione shrugged in answer.

Ginny separated from her sister-in-law and tried to chat with some of the other women present, trying not to nervously twirl her hair, as was her habit. Spying the Black Family Tree, she approached and examined the tattered relic, finding her own surname among those listed, along with the Malfoys, Lestranges, Rosiers, and, surprisingly, Potters. A thin silver line stemmed from Dorea (née Black) to Charlus, dropping down to James, and a generation below that, to Harry. 

_Interesting_. Before she could engage herself any further in the debate that had just sparked inside her head _(does that mean I lost my virginity with one of my cousins?)_ she was approached by none other than Pansy Parkinson.

“You look good, Weasley,” Pansy said, ignoring her married name but delivering her a compliment nonetheless. Ginny was tempted to correct her, to say, _actually, it’s Carmichael, as of last autumn,_ but the words halted at her lips.

“Thank you,” she replied, suddenly very glad she’d worn a dress. She’d guessed that the occasion would be on the formal side, and it appeared that she was correct. 

Truthfully, she was pleased with how she looked compared to her old schoolmates; Quidditch training had given her an even tan, softening her freckles and brining out the coppery highlights in her hair. Even though she no longer played professionally she was still in good condition, still the wiry, active girl from her school days but with the curves that only adulthood had granted her. Ginny had spent many long years wondering when she would develop the hourglass figure she’d glimpsed in pictures of her mother before she’d had Bill, eventually resigning herself to accept what Fleur had described as an “athletic” body type, a far cry from what her mother had looked like at her age. But slowly, and with an almost unprecedented lateness to its arrival, she had filled out, finally close to her idea of what a normal woman was supposed to look like.

Even though she was looking better than she ever had, Ginny still found herself unable to be completely at ease when her teenaged rivals surrounded her. All throughout her school days she had felt unremarkable in comparison to these very girls—Pansy had the bust and waistline that Lavender and Parvati had always tried to mimic, and Daphne was still tall, fair, and willowy, all big eyes and sharp cheekbones. The small, insecure voice from her youth was making its presence known, yanking cords of nervousness in her chest when, after at least an hour of socializing with the thirty-something women present, she was faced with Tracy alone.

“I’m glad that you came,” she said, not exactly sweetly but as friendly as Tracy Davis had ever been to her in person. Her sharp brown eyes reminded Ginny of a hawk, flecks of yellow piercing through the iris. 

“Thanks. It’s nice to see everyone, and to congratulate you.”

Tracy glanced around, checking for eavesdroppers, it appeared, and addressed her more openly. “I’m sure this is strange for you. I’m mean, you were with Harry for three years, and we haven’t even been together that long and now I’m having this baby . . . he told me he’d marry me, but it didn’t feel like the right thing to do. It’s good that you’re happy, that you have a husband that really cares about you.”

Her words held emotion, but not once did Ginny see her lip tremble or her eyes tear up. It occurred to her that Tracy was a different type of woman altogether—cool, strong, even-tempered. The differences between herself and the blonde in front of her were staggering.

“I understand,” she said. “And you don’t have to explain all of this to me. My sister-in-law asked me to come, so I’m here for her. Please don’t feel . . . whatever it is you’re feeling about this. Things between me and Harry have been over for a long time.”

Tracy, it seemed, hadn’t been expecting that from her. “I assumed as much.”

“It’s been nice to get to know you a little, and your friends, but Hermione and I will probably be on our way soon enough. Good luck with the baby.”

Somehow the whole affair felt very far away, like one of the sleepy recollections she’d sometimes get of a fading dream. Hermione hugged Tracy goodbye and Ginny followed suit, but it felt very strange to her, like she was seven years old again and they were performing some little play for her parents. The lady in waiting with a trick up her sleeve, waiting to avenge one of her brothers. She matched Tracy’s distant valediction with one of her own, ignoring the steady burning in her fingers and the pounding blood in her ears. 

Just before they stepped onto the top of the front stairs she breezed by the black fatigue jacket she’d seen countless times before, quickly breathing in preparation to apparate. Ginny recognized his scent immediately and fought against the panicked rush of anger that shot through her, the irrevocable sadness. She gripped her wand and spirited herself away, landing in her deserted bedroom just as her eyes began to tear. 

_What a nice girl_ , she thought, biting her lip and denying the sharp, prickling sensation of tears leaking down her cheek while Alouette joined her on the bed. _I’m sure they’ll have a beautiful child together._


	4. The Vine-Laid Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter moves forward in time by about fifteen years and is much longer than the previous chapters. I'd appreciate any reviews, comments, or feedback that you guys have to offer. Thanks for taking the time to read.

_Dear Willow,_

_How is school? Are you unbearably busy yet? I seem to always remember classes picking up around Halloween, but that may just have been my perception. Reg and Canus are doing well but they miss you. It’s been rather cold here and I’ve brought them inside for the evenings but I don’t think they like being cooped up, even if it’s just for the night. Did my last package come in all right? I put a selective impenetrable charm on the wrapping, so it should’ve been spelled to open only to you, but those international owls aren’t always the most reliable._

_Dudley and Simone have just left from their visit so I can finally go back to doing things around the house with magic. They brought Patrick with them this time; apparently he’s been getting up to all kinds of “funny business,” which is normal for a wizard at his age. I think Dudley’s beginning to realize it, at least, but Simone seems keen on keeping her head in the sand. I don’t know what he’s told her about our side of the family, so I wouldn’t mention Patrick’s little outbursts when you come home for the holidays._

_I’m glad to hear that training and practices are going well, even if Hufflepuff is looking like good competition. Who would have thought. When I was at school their sportsmanship was less than extraordinary._

_Tell Scorpius that I said hello and that if he needs any more references he shouldn’t hesitate to ask. Also, I’d expect a package from your Aunt Hermione soon. You know how she deals with stress; she just started on a big case and I’m fairly certain that it’s resulted in an excess of apple strudel that I’ve sent your way, so be prepared. Teddy sends his love, but I don’t think he will be writing any time soon. I have a feeling that auror training is finally catching up with him._

_There’s not much else to share besides the usual. People are still committing crimes, I’m still dealing with it through a mountain of paperwork, but that’s the Ministry for you. Stay interested in Runes; maybe after school you can end up handling ancient documents or translating stone tablets on the galleon of a private researcher or something._

_I love you very much. Good luck with your next match and keep working hard. Remember: private researcher._

_Love,  
Dad_

Willow folded the thick, curling parchment she’d been engrossed in over the course of breakfast and took a fleeting sip of coffee. Scorpius was slowly rising from the Ravenclaw table, gesturing towards the Entrance Hall with his head. She shouldered her bag and left the Gryffindor table to meet her oldest and closest friend on their way to Charms, and they fell into step, like bobbing leaves in a stream.

“That a letter from your dad?” Scorpius asked, sweeping his long, blond fringe out of his eyes. 

“Yeah,” she answered, setting her mouth into a frown. “Reading it makes me miss my dogs, and my house. I don’t know when I’ll have time to write back to him though. Tonight I have to work on that essay for potions because I won’t have a chance to do it this weekend, not with that detention practically all day Saturday and Quidditch on Sunday.”

Where Willow was athletic and occasionally hot-headed, Scorpius was academic and, recently, more than a little bitter. His parents were separated, leaving their fourteen-year-old son increasingly disillusioned and sullen. He nodded at her put-out tone and offered to work on the assignment with her later that evening, pending a school-sanctioned floo call with his father to “work things out” between them.

Willow carefully folded her father’s letter and tucked it into the pocket of her robes. She was dreading her prescribed detention tomorrow and Professor Flitwick’s cheerful attitude as they entered the classroom for their lesson did little to assuage her. 

She had earned her punishment by firing a forceful blasting curse at Mirinda Sparks after the Gryffindor-Slytherin match last weekend. The game had lasted over two hours and the flying between Willow and Sparks had been more intense than usual, ending when she had caught the snitch just before a bludger had collided squarely into her lower back. Thankfully Willow had been only a few meters above the ground, but after she recovered her broom Mirinda had stalked over to her, her brown hair blown wildly out of its ponytail, and grabbed the back of her crimson uniform.

The blasting curse she’d fired had been a little off-center, owing mostly to Willow’s injury to her lumbar region. It had sent Mirinda soaring into the base of a stand of spectators, knocking her out cold and causing a red stream of blood to trace a dark path down her face.

Needless to say, the action had more than earned her four Saturdays’ worth of detention, even if the consequences of the curse had been unintended.

Willow rested her pale chin on her hand while the tiny professor made a diagram of a wand movement. She yanked her loose sleeve up so it covered her arm, hoping to hide the vivid freckles she’d earned over the summer that had yet to fade. Content to daydream out the window while Scorpius took notes, she smoothed her long, black hair behind her ear and thought of the letter in her pocket.

\----

Hallam Carmichael was, Willow believed, possibly the worst company she could have earned for her Saturday detention. Hal might have been in her own house but he was the most reluctant Gryffindor she’d ever met, instigating little, harmless acts of disobedience that classified as unremarkable in her book. She considered Hal’s form of teenaged rebellion (namely, shagging his sixth year girlfriend at fourteen and smoking gillyweed behind the greenhouses) as mundane. She wasn’t Harry Potter’s daughter for nothing, and Willow considered stealing her stepfather’s surgical anesthetics or going for joyrides over muggle Bristol with her dad’s vintage firebolt as more noteworthy crimes.

She approached Hagrid’s hut with her eyes squinted against the slowly climbing sun, spotting Hal’s ginger curls from a distance. From the sight of the gloves, buckets, and spearing knives at Hal’s feet, Willow could safely assume that whatever task they were to perform would be unpleasant. Hal was Ginny Carmichael’s—no, she corrected herself—Ginny Weasley’s son, and he had inherited his mother’s freckles, orange hair, and sharp cheekbones. Even though she didn’t have much respect for his lifestyle or lack of ambition, Willow quietly admitted to herself that he was handsome.

“Hi,” she said, reaching the pair at the edge of the forest. “Am I late?”

“Jus’ on time, as a matter o’ fact,” Hagrid said, shutting a pocket watch the size of a saucer. “Fer yer detention you’ll be helping me catch glover worms in the forest, so you’ll be needing these,” he said, tossing Willow a pair of gloves. Glover worms were around six inches long, carnivorous, and useful as a base for polishing spelled marble. The practical intent behind their punishment made it seem somehow less horrible than writing lines or copying old files, despite her knowledge of how unpleasant a creature the glover worm actually was.

“Alright,” she said, pulling the thick dragon-hide gloves up to her elbows and grabbing a pail. “Shall we get started?”

\----

As the morning eased into midday the air in the forest took on a heavy, humid quality despite the tree cover. Hal and Willow were prodding in the mud of a shallow brook with their spears while Hagrid walked ahead of them to a larger nearby stream. The glover worms reminded her of slimy black slugs, and despite the point of the exercise she was still pleased at the idea of not finding any in the swampy banks. 

A bead of sweat inched down her temple while Hal tossed his spear in the air one-handed, catching it and giving it a twist with his wrist.

If it had been anyone else Willow would have told them to stop before they punctured themselves, but Hal could use some humbling, in her opinion, and maybe a self-inflicted detention wound would do just the trick. She stayed silent, dropping her pail on the sloping underbrush and wiping her forehead with a black bandana. 

Searching for Hagrid ahead of them, Willow almost missed it when Hal spoke to her.

“I saw what you did to Sparks,” he said, prodding the cap of a mushroom with the lethal end of his spear. “A nice curse, that was. Gave everyone a good laugh.”

Curses are nothing to laugh about, admonished her father’s voice in her mind. She ignored it. “Thanks,” she said in a compromise. “Although I think Mirinda would disagree with you.”

He smirked, spearing an unlucky glover worm in the process and flopping it into his pail. “Who cares what she thinks. I imagine it earned you loads of detention though. How much more do you have?”

“The next four Saturdays,” she said, returning to her search. “What did you do to end up here?”

Hal shrugged, suddenly losing the edge of his bravado. For a moment she thought that he wasn’t going to answer her at all, but after a stretched silence he offered, “I got caught in a bit of a compromising position with my girlfriend.”

“By who?”

“Longbottom,” he said.

“Could have been worse,” Willow assured him. “Imagine if it had been McGonagall, or Flitwick. Talk about embarrassing.”

“But Professor Longbottom is all chummy with my mum. They’re old school friends. I mean, the bloke knew me when I was in nappies, for Merlin’s sake.”

“I see your point,” she said, wiping her muddied hands on the front of her jeans. “I’d be embarrassed no matter who walked in, but at least it’s someone who isn’t going to gossip about you to all the other teachers, you know?”

“Yeah,” Hal said moodily. 

They worked in silence for close to twenty minutes, rinsing the metal tips of their spears in the stream and moving further down its banks toward rockier slopes. The sound of the water traveling over river stones was markedly different from the slow-moving pace before, and Willow felt at home with the tones of water rushing against boulders, the sound reminding her of her mother’s home in the south and the horse land by the sea. 

Squinting her eyes towards the thickening trees, Willow failed to make out their professor in the distance. They had wandered down a fast-moving tributary that branched off from the slower main stream where they were supposed to be searching.

Hal trudged along a few paces behind her while she angled herself over a wet, slippery rock. The worn heel of her trainer skidded along its surface and failed to halt her progress over the edge, sliding out from underneath her while she fell from the rock’s edge into a deep crevice that she hadn’t even seen moments before. 

Willow smacked the ground with a deep oomph, landing in a bed of packed leaves in what looked, from the inside, like a very circular hole. The walls of the hole were made of soft earth, not good for climbing her way out, and the lip of the pit was a good six or seven feet taller than her height. Stretching her arms upwards, Willow called out to Hal from inside.

“Hal!” she said, grabbing a stone and chucking it over the edge. “I’m over here. Give me a hand.”

Grabbing her wand from the waistband of her jeans, Willow tried to cast a simple charm that would send rope out the tip of her wand, but after clearly speaking the incantation no rope materialized. Confused, she tried again, but the second time proved as fruitless as the first. 

_I’m falling further behind in lessons than I thought_ , Willow mused, trying another spell that would send out red sparks to alert Hal to her location. Nothing emerged out of the tip of her wand, and it was then that she began to worry. _My magic isn’t working_ , she realized, trying any number of spells to test her theory. The sound of Hal’s footsteps grew closer but she couldn’t perform any of the spells she’d attempted, no matter their order or method in casting.

“Are you down there?” he asked, peering over the edge.

“Yes,” Willow answered. “But my magic’s gone all funny. I don’t know what’s wrong. I tried to cast some spells to get out of this bloody pit but nothing’s working. Can you try and help me out of here? I’m stuck.”

Hal grabbed his wand from the back pocket of his trousers and settled onto his knees to cast the same rope spell that had originally failed her. He leaned forward and muttered the incantation, failing to conjure the material and tipping himself over the edge of the hole at the same time. He fell, face first, onto Willow, who ducked and covered her head in preparation for the fall. 

“Fucking Christ,” she swore, spitting out a mouthful of dirt while Hal gathered himself together. “You nearly flattened me.”

“What the hell is this place?” he asked, trying to dig his hands into the soft sides of the pit and watching as the dirt crumbled away under the pressure. “I don’t think my magic’s working either, and now we’re both stuck in here.”

“Fantastic,” she bristled. “At least we’ll be able to keep each other company while we wait for Hagrid to find us.”

“Wait? Are you joking?” Hal asked.

“Well what do you propose we do? Neither of us can cast any spells, the walls are too soft to climb out of, and even standing on top of one another we wouldn’t be tall enough to lift the other out. We’re stuck, so we wait.”

“Ruddy brilliant,” he spat out bitterly.

“My thoughts exactly,” Willow said, matching his tone.

\----

Minerva McGonagall stood waiting in the entrance hall with her hands clasped behind her back, speaking in low tones with the visitor who had just arrived. He wore a Ministry issue black cloak and dragon-hide work boots, all in the same color scheme as his unruly dark hair. While passing, a few students glanced over and, with wide eyes, realized that their Headmistress was waiting with none other than Harry Potter. 

Sensing the intrigued gazes of her students, Professor McGonagall suggested that they relocate to her office or the staff room, but Harry declined.

“There’s no need,” he said genially. “This way we can get started sooner. Thanks for bringing this straight to me. It’s better that fewer people know about this, it could compromise the integrity of the investigation, and you know how people can get with rumors . . .”

“I quite agree,” the Headmistress replied. She broke their conversation to check her watch, spying the many decorated hands pointing in various directions. “Mrs. Weasley should be arriving very shortly. She had to send an owl to the boy’s father in Portugal before she could leave.”

Harry nodded and fingered the wand holster attached to his right thigh, feeling for a familiar groove in his wand handle. However, Ginny didn’t keep them waiting long; after only a minute or two the doors to the Entrance Hall opened and he caught sight of her trademark red hair, swept up into a loose bun at the back of her head. Professor McGonagall approached her and Harry followed, crossing the Hall in a few long strides.

“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Weasley, although I wish it could be under more positive circumstances.”

Ginny greeted the Headmistress and nodded in agreement, her normally full lips pressed tightly together in what Harry knew to be a display of worry. “Have none of the other Professors turned anything up?”

“No, unfortunately, which is why I’ve called Mr. Potter and yourself to the school this afternoon. I was hoping that you wouldn’t mind assisting us in the search for your children. Mr. Potter is here as a parent and as a representative of the Auror Office. If we aren’t able to find the students after four hours then he has agreed to bring in more of his personnel to assist the investigation. Does this arrangement suit you, Mrs. Weasley?”

“Yes, everything sounds fine,” she said, more than a hint of anxiety in her voice.

Professor McGonagall would be searching the south side of the Forest with Professor Flitwick, while Hagrid and Professor Longbottom would be working to the north. Harry and Ginny were going to start in the western-most region closest to the castle and make their way across the forest in an eastbound direction.

As he explained the plan to Ginny on their way from the front steps across the grounds Harry tried to keep his mind centered on the task at hand; on Willow, his missing daughter, and the best method to result in her recovery. He also tried to explain as much about the process behind a standard auror search as he could, remembering that Ginny was the type of person who took comfort in being well informed. The more she knew the easier this task would be for her, and Harry had no intention of denying her that courtesy.

As they approached the tree line Professor McGonagall joined Professor Flitwick, who was waiting for her near the vegetable gardens. Hagrid and Neville had already started, leaving the final pair to begin their search immediately at the forest’s edge.

Harry spared a glance at Ginny, focusing on the fine, peaked curve of her lips against her pale, freckled skin. Even after being mostly out of contact with her for fifteen years he still found her eye-catching. The sun glimmered through the opaque clouds, casting her hair in a coppery light that shot him straight back to age sixteen, overwhelmed by her appearance but desperately trying for a closer look. He blinked as Ginny lowered her eyes. A knot in his throat reminded him that he was here for his daughter—a daughter that he’d conceived with another woman—and that Willow needed him.

“Let me know if you see anything that may belong to a student, like a watch or a piece of jewelry, something small. Those types of objects can be the most useful,” he said, scanning the ground in concentration. It was much cooler under the thicker tree cover of the old growth forest, and a light breeze shifted the changing leaves above them, sending a few from their branches to scatter on the forest floor.

“Okay,” she replied, her wand in her right hand while they searched. 

After a few minutes passed of near silent combing through the underbrush, Ginny asked, “Do you feel like they’re in real danger? I realize that the forest is especially unsafe at night, but during the day it seems less . . . hostile.”

Harry thought for a moment before answering, choosing his words carefully. “I mostly agree with what you just said, but it isn’t necessarily the immediate threat to them that’s worrisome. Imagine Hal and Willow left here over nightfall—that’s the real thing to avoid. We should have enough time to find them before then, but if we don’t turn anything up then this will definitely become more than just a search mission.”

Ginny nodded in understanding. “I have to admit, I was a little surprised to hear that Willow was in detention. Mum tells me she’s not as much of a troublemaker as her father.”

The corners of his mouth tugging up, Harry said, “Don’t let her fool you. Willow can be really sneaky when she thinks no one’s looking.”

“Then I suppose she’s nothing like Hal. He wouldn’t know subtlety if it smacked him across the face,” she joked.

They walked in line with surprising ease considering the level of undisturbed shrubs and vines that lay in their path. On more than one occasion Ginny reached out to steady herself by grasping his arm and he had no choice but to ignore the flush of warmth pooling beneath her touch, schooling his features into his best neutral expression, hoping his appearance would extend to how he actually felt. Her breathing sounded in his ears, so clear that it was almost as if he could feel it against his cheek, could taste the mint and sweetness he remembered on her lips.

A hot flush of desire traveled down his spine and Harry mentally shook himself. _Focus. You will be lost in this forest for centuries if you don’t get a hold on yourself._

He licked his lips and forced the knowledge of how physically close she was out of his mind. “Does Hal still want to be an auror?” he asked, figuring that talking was the best way to disengage himself from thoughts about his former lover. Or perhaps it was the best way to make a fool of himself in front of her. He couldn’t be sure.

Ginny frowned and pushed her way through a tangled clump of English Ivy that was sprawled across the forest floor. “That’s what he’s always said, but with his grades . . . I keep hinting that he needs to take school more seriously if he ever wants to work in law enforcement, but Hal hasn’t been himself lately. The divorce really seemed to affect him.”

Her words were laced with a regretful undercurrent that he suspected was guilt. Harry had spent years wrestling with the same insecurities towards his own parenting and it was oddly comforting to see those same faults in Ginny.

“How has that been, by the way? Ron told me about it but he’s been pretty sparse with the details.”

Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, she said, “Things haven’t been too bad between Eddie and I. He’s living in Portugal with another woman, in Barreiro, but Hal is with me for the summers. Sometimes I think it would have been smarter for us to have never gotten married. It would have made this whole process simpler.”

“I’ve wondered the complete opposite thing, actually,” Harry said. “Tracey and I were never married and we only stayed together for a few years after Willow was born, and I figure that everything would be totally different if we had been married. For Willow’s sake I wish things had worked out, but that’s long over with.”

“How has she taken to it? I mean, to you and Tracey being separated,” she asked.

Helping Ginny over a sprawling, decayed log, he could have sworn that her hand lingered in his, but the memory of her sharp, clinical departure from his life argued otherwise.

“Fine. We were only together when Willow was really little so I don’t think she remembers it much. She doesn’t seem too fond of her stepfather, though I can hardly blame her. Theodore Nott has always been a bit strange.”

They walked in silence for a while, peering in the underbrush for any sign of their lost children. The bright, airy feel to the day made the process look surreal to Harry, and it was almost as if the cheerful breeze and the riot of fall color were mocking his negative mood. _I’m taking a walk with my ex-girlfriend on a brisk autumn day to find my missing daughter_ , he thought, marveling at the unpredictable turn of events. It had been years since he had spoken to Ginny, yet here they were, chatting like old friends about separation and divorce while the only bright spot in his rather lonely life was hidden somewhere amongst the trees. 

The changing leaves kept playing tricks on him. A wide orange maple leaf caused a bolt of hopefulness to shoot through his chest, thinking for an instant that he’d glimpsed Hal’s wavy ginger hair, but the thought died quickly as the leaf fell from its branch and wafted to the ground.

Harry crouched down and traced an outline in the dirt with his wand. Halting, Ginny watched him work, silent as he muttered an incantation that she had never heard before.

“It’s a footprint,” he said, watching as it glowed with a faint golden light around the edges. “And it’s tested positive for a living person. What’s Hal’s shoe size? It looks like it might belong to him.”

Ginny approached him and studied the shape pressed into the earth. “It looks around the right size, but he’s always growing, so I can’t be sure. But who else would be in this part of the forest anyway?”

“Good point,” Harry agreed, feeling the ground beside the outline. It was moist, pliant and easy to mark. “Do you know if it rained anytime recently? If so then this imprint has to be fresh.”

“I don’t know,” she said, her features knitted in thoughtfulness. “But I remember the autumn season here being very wet, so that’s likely.”

He stood and brushed the dirt from his hands, setting forward through the trees. 

Being around Ginny again felt strange to him. He had expected to have the same reaction to her that he had to Cho and Tracey, which was a hypersensitivity to their actions and a sort of confusing desire to either leave or investigate, but surprisingly being around his former girlfriend wasn’t as awkward as he’d expected. Even the talk about her divorce from Eddie—somehow the fact that Ed Carmichael was with another woman in a foreign country while Ginny was still in England (and possibly unattached) eased the tension. Instead of leaving well enough alone, however, Harry felt the need to ask her a bit more, to dig for the connection they used to have.

“So, how’s the single life treating you?” he asked, watching her walk beside him out of the corner of his eye. 

If his question surprised her she didn’t show it. “Things have been . . . different, I suppose. I’d gotten so used to having someone there, but I haven’t been in any real relationships since then. Just some dating, but nothing’s really stuck, you know? And I can’t get past feeling indebted to Hal, like I’ve taken away his childhood or something, which has really been stopping me from trying more, I reckon.”

Harry nodded and blinked against a bright patch of sun. “Trust me, I’ve been there. But you’ve just got to remember your own happiness. Hal’s fourteen, and I’m sure this hasn’t been easy on him, but it’ll get better. You’ll both adjust. But it’s really important to put yourself first sometimes, and I can guarantee that your son won’t blame you for it.”

“Are you still with Nora? I remember mum mentioning that you two were engaged.”

His stomach twisting at the memory of his former fiancée, he said, “No, we called it off. She’s in Ireland now, working at one of the branches of St. Mungo’s. We split up about a year ago,” he explained evenly, holding a branch out of the way so she could follow the path he was leading. 

The farther they walked in their most recent direction the more Harry was beginning to think that he could hear voices. His ears strained to pick up anything that reminded him of his daughter, but they were too far away to tell. 

“Do you hear that?” she asked, a look of concentration animating her features.

“Yeah, it sounds like it’s coming from over there,” Harry said, pointing to a small brook that had started to flow over patches of boulders and river-stones. “I don’t see anything though. Lets get closer.”

They approached the bank of the stream, walking in pace with one another, wands drawn. Spying the wet, slick rocks up ahead, Harry offered Ginny his hand, steadying each other while they edged closer. The farther they went the more easily the pair of them could hear voices talking.

“What a rotten hole to be stuck in. There are bloody worms all over this place.”

Her eyes wide with surprise, Ginny was sure she just heard her son’s voice.

“Hal!” She called, hurrying forward and still clutching tightly to Harry’s hand for balance. “Hal, is that you? Where are you?”

“Mum! Be careful, we’re stuck in this massive hole—Willow’s with me—and our magic doesn’t work.”

“What do you mean your magic doesn’t work?” Harry asked, carefully positioning himself at the mouth of the pit.

“Dad,” Willow called. “We haven’t been able to cast any spells since we fell in here. You may have to lower a branch or something to get us out.”

His curiosity piqued, Harry conjured a length of rope and watched as it vanished when he tossed it into the crevice. 

Ginny eased her way toward a nearby oak tree, pointing her want at one of the gnarred branches and casting a _diffindo_ charm. The limb crashed to the ground and she angled it over to Harry, who directed the opposite end into the pit for Willow and Hal to grab hold of.

“I’ll help you up,” Hal said, hoisting Willow above his shoulders while Harry pulled her over the edge by her forearms. 

Hal followed soon after, needing more help than Willow had in getting close enough to Harry to be heaved out. Ginny and Willow held on to the base of Harry’s legs as he pulled the fourteen-year-old closer to the mouth of the pit. Harry latched on to Hal’s upper torso and yanked the boy over the edge before he could lose his balance, his jaw set in the strain of lifting the dead weight of a nearly full-grown man.

“Blimey, Mr. Potter,” Hal said, stumbling to get up and brushing dirt off his front. “Anyone who says you don’t still have it doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

Harry laughed before hugging his daughter. “I appreciate that.”

“Everyone can say thank you later,” Ginny said, pulling her son into an embrace. “Lets get you both back to the castle.”


	5. A Form of Gratitude

The hospital wing was just as cold as he remembered, carrying with it the scent of cleaning products and unpleasant medicines that, fleetingly, swept him into his aged memories of Quidditch accidents and adventures gone wrong. Madam Pomfrey saw to both Hal and Willow, fussing over the dirt and grime that had found its way into their injuries, while they waited for their children to be sorted out.

Professor McGonagall joined Harry and Ginny in their observation, a question on her lips and the smell of earth clinging to her robes.

“Where were the two of them discovered?” she asked, her words as concise and formal as always.

“In a rather deep pit,” Harry answered, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. “Hal and Willow said something about their magic not working, and I think it must have been related to the location because I tried to cast a length of rope down to them but the spell didn’t yield anything.”

“Perhaps there was an enchantment placed there that only allows magic to be performed by certain people, or only magic of a specific type,” Ginny offered, thinking out loud.

“That is a possibility,” McGonagall conceded. “But I’m inclined to believe, if the descriptions Mr. Weasley and Mrs. Potter have provided are accurate, that the students somehow found themselves in an _endroit voler._ ”

“A place to steal?” Ginny asked, puzzled.

Harry, who had never heard the phrase before and had no knowledge of its origins, remained silent.

“The French are the only ones who have a name for it,” Professor McGonagall explained. “It refers to a location where magical energy is literally stolen, at least temporarily. These places can take any form, although they’re usually represented geographically, and they’re said to appear in locations where there is great magical energy—places where wizards are concentrated in one area for a long period of time, like Hogwarts, for example.”

“It has been rumored that locations of this nature existed somewhere in the area,” she continued, “but until now there has been little proof of such a thing residing on Hogwarts grounds.”

“It would make sense,” Harry said. “But that’s really strange. I’ve never heard of that type of magic before.”

“It is rather uncommon,” McGonagall admitted. “It also makes the children very lucky to have been discovered. I doubt they would have been able to escape on their own.”

Ginny’s face paled at the Professor’s words, her freckles appearing darker than usual against her pallor. “Lets be grateful then,” she said.

It appeared that Madam Pomfrey had finished patching up the two fourth-years, having wrapped Willow’s ankle into a splint while Hal grimaced at the smell of a sticky paste on his left elbow. The light in the hospital wing had dimmed considerably since their arrival, signaling the approaching nightfall. Ginny was suddenly very relieved to have found her son before dusk had settled.

“I doubt the students have received any permanent maladies, and it looks like Madam Pomfrey’s work is finished for now, so I will leave the two of you to spend time with your children. Good day to you Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, inclining her head to both of them and exiting through the double doors of the hospital wing.

“Better to have said ‘good evening’,” Harry mumbled, sot voce.

Before going to her son, which Ginny very much wanted to do, she faced Harry with a determined glint in her eye that strongly reminded him of the spry, outgoing teenager he’d known in his youth.

“I want to thank you,” she said. Harry began to shake his head, but she cut him off, “And don’t say you don’t deserve it, because I wouldn’t have been able to get Hal out of there by myself, even with Willow’s help. I appreciate it.”

The Harry of fifteen years ago would have said that he was doing what anyone would have done, that he was doing his job as an auror, that he wanted to get his daughter out of there just as much as she wanted to rescue her son. But he wasn’t the person he used to be, which he demonstrated to her by simply saying, “Thank you.”

The corner of her mouth tugged upwards for a moment, a half-smile suspended in his memories before disappearing.

“I’d like to ask you to dinner,” Ginny added.

His eyebrows slightly lifted, Harry asked, “As a form of gratitude?”

“If thinking that will get you to come, then yes, sure,” she said, smirking now and digging through her pocket for what turned out to be a spare bit of parchment. Ginny tapped it with her wand and extended it to him, her pale hand like a connecting spark between them.

“That’s my address. It’s new.”

Despite the warning voice in his head Harry extended his hand and took it, warmth shooting through his fingers.

“I’ll owl you,” he said, folding the paper to half its size and tucking it into his trouser pocket for safekeeping.

She smiled for real this time and took a step toward her son. “Good.”

\----

The Starling’s Perch wasn’t the most popular restaurant in Diagon Alley, but it was quiet and Ginny rarely saw anyone she knew while dining there, so when Harry suggested they meet at the hole-in-the-wall establishment for their dinner, she agreed. She agreed again a week later when he sent her another dinner invitation, and when the third owl arrived Ginny jokingly said that they shouldn’t deviate from tradition, which found them at Starling’s for a third time.

A third date, to be specific. At least that was how she privately referred to their meetings in the hours leading up to them while she sorted through all the possible things she could wear, trying to remember whether Harry liked her in blue or green or violet, and eventually deciding that it didn’t matter and wearing yellow instead. She’d been less chatty than usual with the trainees, which all of her recruits attributed to her recent divorce, but truthfully she was preoccupied with thoughts about Harry.

 _I’m not swooning_ , she thought, sorting through her limited collection of muggle dresses, _I’m just considering my situation, that’s all._

Alouette, her English Setter, watched her from the foot of the bed, tail wagging.

“You think you’re coming too,” Ginny said, eyeing the dog. “But I’ve got to leave you at home, girl. I’ll be back later.”

 _At least I think I will_ , she thought, stroking Alouette’s white, spotted head. So far neither of them had invited the other to their separate homes, but Ginny had a feeling that this situation might change. There wasn’t a tangible reason for this belief, but it prompted her to pick out her sexiest knickers just the same. She hadn’t mentioned to anyone that she had been going out with Harry, partly because speaking about it would make it all the more real and partly because she was unsure how to describe what they were. But recently she had gotten the impression that they were more than just old schoolmates catching up.

There were moments when they would be talking and her mind would drift to the way his hand felt when it brushed against her arm or the shape of his lips when he pressed them together in thought. Harry’s presence across the table from her was always warm and distinct, leaving her with a heady, lightheaded feeling that she associated with infatuation. There was no denying that she found him attractive—Harry’s work with aurors had ensured that he was fit despite nearing forty—and she was unsurprised at her body’s reaction to him.

When they had been teenagers she had definitely been attracted to him, but as an adult Ginny had no shame in admitting that she liked the way he had changed over the years. The Harry from her girlhood had been boyish and charming and a little lanky, but cute to her all the same. However, the Harry Potter she had been introduced to recently was a man, with a man’s body and a man’s looks.

She’d had dreams recently as well, little scenes that replayed themselves to her every night, illustrating how the matured version of her former boyfriend would look and what it would be like to be touched by him. Sometimes he would arrive at her flat in his work clothes, greeting her dream-self as if they were married and leading her into the bedroom. Dream-Harry would pull off her clothes and press her into the mattress, dragging his nails over her skin in teasing circles and pulling her hips against his.

The dreams always ended before any kind of resolution, leaving Ginny feeling frustrated and antsy, her body humming with the forgotten tune of desire.

\----

Their third evening together went faster than Ginny had realized. It felt like she’d just settled into talking about her new recruits for the England team when their entrees had arrived and it caught her off guard when, what felt like only five minutes later, they were both sipping desert wine and the time on Harry’s watch read nearly nine o’clock.

It was as if her time with him was so entrancing that she hardly noticed when it slipped through her fingers. Ginny drained her wine glass and said, “It feels like diner’s only just started.”

Harry peered at her for a moment before saying, “Why don’t you come home with me for a bit? You’ve never seen the Bristol house.”

It was that simple. All this time she had been expecting it and when Harry invited her it felt so normal to accept, deceptive, almost, like they really were just two friends going back to his house for drinks. And perhaps that is all we are, she thought, pulling on her trench jacket and trying to dampen the excitement that was tingling through her spine like venom.

He put some galleons on the table to cover the cost of their dinner. Grabbing her hand, she squeezed her eyes shut as Harry apparated them to his home by the sea, her chest tightening at the thought of what would happen there.

\----

Harry’s cottage was just to the north of Bristol, past the suburbs and a little into the countryside. The house was within walking distance of the ocean but a wide, grassy lawn and a thick tree line buffered the generous sea breeze. Harry had two dogs that immediately greeted her when they arrived, excited by the scent of Alouette on her clothes.

He introduced the dogs as Reg and Canus, and Ginny got acquainted with them while he fetched a bottle of wine and two drinking glasses.

The dogs followed her into the den and settled on the hardwood, both of them knackered and ready to return to sleep, she reckoned. Harry handed her a glass of wine and she accepted it gratefully, hoping that it would calm her down. Her body seemed to be keenly aware of his presence next to her on the sofa, and she couldn’t help but wish he were a little closer.

Thinking about who Harry was and the role he had played in her life, it really was mad that she was here now, divorced from her husband and in his home after dinner and drinks. Ginny eased her wineglass onto the side table and turned so she was facing him more easily, her heartbeat sounding in her eardrums.

Fifteen years ago, she had left him and forced herself not to look back, but here they were again, and Ginny couldn’t help the fact that she knew where they were headed.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Harry said, his arm on the back of the couch but not exactly around her shoulders.

“Yeah?” she asked, watching him squirm in his seat. He was just as nervous as she was; somehow, that made things a little easier.

“You’re doubting yourself,” he explained. “You used to look the same way toward the end of a match, like you weren’t confident in how you’d performed, like you had to make some brilliant play at the end otherwise the whole thing wouldn’t have been worth it. You always took the tough option.”

“And?”

She held her breath, watching him think while shivers of excitement crept up her spine like the rush of the wind against her back.

“You always seemed to pull through; your last score usually turned out to be your best,” he said with confidence, his green eyes sharp and piercing.

A pulse of longing passed through her and she was sure it showed. Harry met her gaze and she fought to remember who and what she was.

Ginny rose from her seat and climbed into his lap, bringing a leg to either side of him and brushing her hips against his. A volley of emotions tumbled around in her head—lust, affection, excitement, nervousness—as she lowered her mouth to his, focusing on the smooth press of his lips against hers. She felt herself sigh at the contact while desire roamed between her legs, his tongue parting her lips and threading its way into her mouth.

She raked her hands through his hair while he kissed her lower lip, conscious of the advances he was making to pull her closer. Harry found her hips and pressed them against his arousal, his warm palms sliding over her thighs and under the hem of her dress, moving upwards to smooth over her lower back and steady her position on his lap.

“Stay with me,” he said, kissing the underside of her jaw.

She steadied herself against his chest and breathed deeply, her life up to now playing behind her eyelids.

“Okay,” Ginny said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “I’ll stay.”

\----

The contrast of the cool sheets against her heated skin made her dizzy. Harry ran his hands up her sides and kissed her chest, his fingers tugging her knickers downward. A heady rush of longing raced down her spine as she slid his linen oxford over his shoulders, her hands tracing the smooth planes of his chest.

After fifteen years, they were back to the same place, retracing the same path. But every brush of his hands against her felt like the shining spark of something new and unexplored, and Ginny couldn’t help but think that things were entirely different from how they had been when they were teenagers. He touched her with the confidence of a man who knew what he wanted. Harry pressed her against the covers with his hips, cupping her breast with his hand and slowly kissing her neck. The contact sent a flutter of warmth between her legs, as if her delicate, inner core had been exposed.

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut and lost herself in the nostalgic feeling of his body against hers. In the months following their separation she’d revisited memories like this over and over again until they were worn and familiar like old letters, a thought-loop of all the times he’d kissed her inner thigh or pulled her hair while they were in bed. It was like opening a door that had been shut for a long time and feeling the rush of air ready to escape.

She kept returning to the brilliant green of his eyes looking down at her and it was too much. Her chest welled up with desire, fingers curling into his dark hair while Harry brushed against her center, teasingly, deliberately. Ginny rolled her hips upward and sank into the memories of shagging him for the first time, of being in this very position fifteen years ago at Grimmauld Place. A silent gulp of air escaped her mouth as he reenacted the past, easing forward and gripping the bed sheets, the muscles in his back tensing beneath her fingers while they shared a memory.

Her heart struck the walls of her chest in a sharp rhythm, a beat for each year apart. She held him tighter and moved in the darkness, urging him onward like a siren’s call. Harry brushed her hair away from her face and kissed her cheek, the link between them stronger than ever.

\----

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this fic and left their comments, thoughts, or feelings. I really appreciate all the feedback I've received, especially when I initially thought most people wouldn't be interested in this because of the prompt. I've really enjoyed writing this piece so if anyone would be interested in seeing a sequel or drabble to follow this just let me know in the comments.
> 
> Hal and Willow are my own creations, and since we know next to nothing about Tracey and Eddie in canon I'd say that their characterizations are mine as well. Ashworth Square, the fictional neighborhood in chapter one and my story Atropos, is my own. Reg and Canus were named after Regulus and Sirius, and because the only foreign language I speak is French we have an endroit voler instead of the Latin equivalent.
> 
> This story wouldn't have been nearly as good without the help of my wonderful beta **lyras** , who put up with my long sentences and flowery, American writing. Thank you so much for all your help. I'm grateful for all the response I've gotten for this story. Thanks for reading!


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